


The Wolf and the Hound

by IvyBlooms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical sexual tones and violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, TW: talk of rape/non-con at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-08 23:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18904729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyBlooms/pseuds/IvyBlooms
Summary: Hound and Wolf are reunited in the free city of Braavos. Too bad they parted on such dreadful terms and now have to wade through a turret of contradicting emotions.Despite their liberation from Westeros, neither feel particularly free.**I’m bringing us all the way back to season 5, baby! Basically, me fulfilling my dream of Sandor chasing after Arya to Braavos because by the end of this trash heap season, their relationship was the only pure thing remaining. NO ROMANCE. The Hound and Arya have a strictly guardian/ward relationship—purely platonic.Follow me @ targaryenbiitch.tumblr.com





	1. Reunions Are Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome ladies and gents! I have been working on this fic for several months and am so proud and excited to finally publish it. I have the first two chapters written and the third is underway. I had made a promise to myself not to post unfinished works ever again, but I just couldn’t wait to share this! And after such a disappointing and disgraceful end to a much beloved series, I just couldn’t wait.
> 
> The Hound and Arya’s relationship has always had a special place in my heart and I wanted to explore a world in which the Hound followed Arya to Braavos—thus, this fic was born. 
> 
> Full disclaimer, I was inspired in part by a wonderful fic called [Over the River and Through the Woods](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10361965/1/Over-the-River-and-Through-the-Woods) by M. the Inspector. It’s such an amazingly true capturing of Arya and the Hound’s characters so please, give it a read. 
> 
> Lastly, updates will be sporadic. The first two chapters are complete with the third in progress now. I have a general plot in my mind, but time is short as I do work full time. Your patience as readers is always very appreciated. I understand what it’s like to be left waiting, to eagerly watch for that next update of a well loved fic, but just know that I am always doing my best to get these chapters out to you as fast as possible. So thank you in advance for you patience!
> 
> Now, without further ado, please enjoy the first chapter of The Wolf and the Hound.

When Arya first spotted him at the piers of Braavos, she thought she had finally and truly lost her mind. That was the only explanation for her seeing  _ dead people _ walking about on the docks, cursing every god in existence when they tripped on the uneven boards of the walk or stubbed their toe on some poor merchant’s fish cart. It was an accurate hallucination, Arya would give her mind credit at least for concocting such an elaborate and precise image of the man. She had heard plenty of cases of people’s minds driving them loopey, swearing they saw or spoke with their dead loved ones. Arya remembered a servant woman from Winterfell, a memory that was so grey and faded and unwelcome that she couldn’t even recall the woman’s face or voice, just that she used to tell Arya and Sansa stories of making love to her husband every night when the candles flickered at midnight. The woman’s husband had been dead for years, an illness had taken him, the maester had told Arya so when it came up. 

Surely that must be what was happening, although she didn’t quite understand why now, of all times, her mind would conjure up such a thing, and  _ that _ man of all people. If anyone, Arya might have expected to see her father or mother, maybe Robb. But never  _ him _ . 

When he went and shoved one of the fish merchants into the ocean for relentlessly trying to sell him clams, though, Arya knew it was no trick of her troubled mind. 

“Son of a whore!” He snarled dangerously a the man as he struggled to swim. How ridiculous, a Braavosi fish merchant that couldn’t swim. “I said no! You need a sword through your ears to clean them out?”

Arya’s heart stopped, she swore it did, and then it raced hard and knocked the wind out of her. It was  _ him _ . It really was. There was no denying it. 

It was the Hound.

* * *

Fuck fish. Fuck the merchants that sold them and tried to shove them down his throat. And fuck the whores that smelled of them, even after dousing their bodies in perfumes and oils.

“Fish, gods, why so much fucking fish. It’s everywhere. It’s in the streets, in every greasy bastard’s hands, on every menu, it’s in my fucking hair!” The Hound grabbed for his ale and chugged it hard enough that his throat protested.

“It is one of Braavos’ main exports, ser.” The whore of the evening purred. “It is an unfortunate effect of living in a harbor city.”

“It fucking stinks no matter where I go or what I do. And don’t call me ser. I ain’t no knight.” He threw back another too large gulp.

The whore smiled and nodded as she began to undress. 

She wasn’t the first whore the Hound had purchased during his time in Braavos. In fact, she wasn’t even the first he’d been with that day. But there was little else to do in the free city until he secured the information he needed, so why not indulge and blow what little coin he’d managed to save up after paying for passage. Besides, the whores in Braavos seemed far more intelligent than any of the ones he’d ever had in Westeros. They actually could provide decent conversation, clever quips, and one even made him laugh—though he had been more than a little drunk that time. 

“You are not from here.” The whore said, her dress sliding in one fell swoop down to her ankles, revealing her tanned figure. “Where are you from?”

The Hound growled, chucking his empty cup at her head. It barely missed and clattered hard against the wall behind her. She seemed unbothered by the violence and stared, waiting. He sighed, “I don’t fucking pay you to ask questions. But if you’re so fucking curious, the answer is Westeros.”

“Ah,” And it was as if full and complete understanding fell over her then. She approached in the familiar way that all whores did, swinging their hips, bouncing their breasts, and extending their legs—showing off every crevice to build anticipation. But the Hound wasn’t in the mood to wait. He reached out and dragged her down onto the bed, she followed him willingly.  

“I just want a fuck. You want to talk then go find some greasy Braavosi cunt to stick his cock in you instead.”

“As you wish.” She whispered, and then her mouth was on his cock.

The fuck was good, he’d give the Braavosi whores that, they knew how to use those little tongues of theirs and they knew how to tighten their cunts so they felt like a fresh maid. He felt warm, for a time, which was more than he had felt in a long while. But after the sand ran out in their little hourglass, the whore was gone and he was alone. 

Turning over in bed, the Hound reached for the wine pitcher. At least this whore had enough decency (or pity?) to leave the rest for him to finish off while he waited for the after-fuck glow to wear away. It took less and less time each time he had one.

Why had he come here? 

The Hound found himself asking that particularly grating question every time he was alone—which was everytime he didn’t have a whore in his bed. And it never ceased to leave him feeling pissed as hell and ready for another rough fuck. 

Why had he come to Braavos? He had never had any interest in the city before. In fact, he thought the place was full of greasy fish-smelling twats. What was there for him in a place like this? 

He knew the answer, but he didn’t dare think it. Instead, he drank himself into oblivion, praying that the wine would chase away any images of wolves and boyish girls that may haunt his dreams.

* * *

Arya followed the Hound for two weeks after she saw him on the docks. He didn’t do much, really, nothing that she considered out of the ordinary for the Hound. He fucked countless whores, picked fights with merchants and any Braavosi that even glanced at him, and drank and drank and drank some more. He passed out most nights after two pitchers of wine and snored, just like how Arya remembered it. She watched him from the rooftops and canals as he marched aggressively through the streets to the next whore house and she would peek in from the windows, a silent voyeuristic shadow watching as he fucked his whore and then laid desolately in bed afterwards. It was during those times that Arya wished to reveal herself most.

He looked awful.

But why was he here?  _ How _ was he here? She had been so certain, so very sure, that his wounds were fatal. There wasn’t a town within several miles of where he’d fallen and his injures had been severe. There was no way he would have been capable of dragging himself anywhere to receive aid and those wounds were not going to stitch themselves shut. She had left him there, begging, bleeding, and pathetic. The guilt didn’t settle in until several days later after she’d already booked passage to Braavos. 

But despite the odds, here he was fucking whores and drinking all his money away. 

Slipping down from the window where she’d been perched, Arya made her way back to the House of Black and White. Thus was her routine for the last two weeks. 

Arya had been shirking her duties and it had obviously become apparent because when she quietly entered through the front door, Jaqen was there to greet her. 

His appearance instantly made her blood run cold and her muscles stiffen. It was a silly reaction, Jaqen was her friend. But since becoming a trainee, Arya had been realizing quickly that the man she thought she knew didn’t really exist at all and that this Jaqen who stood before her, was just another face, another lie, he wore. 

“A girl has been lazy.” No accusation. Simple fact. That was how Jaqen always spoke and its familiar straightforwardness comforted Arya, if only slight. She relaxed.

“Sorry.”

Jaqen smiled, “A girl has found someone of interest, someone she did not expect to see.”

“How do you—” Arya stopped herself. It was a foolish question. Jaqen knew everything, always. He never revealed how, it was just one of his many enigmatic talents as a Faceless Man. Arya hoped one day that she might be able to know as much as he. “I mean, yes, I did.”

He nodded, accepting this as truth. “A girl will not neglect her duties again.”

“I won’t.”

And that was that. Jaqen disappeared through one of the many corridors that lead to some unknown hall in the maze that was the House of Black and White and Arya retreated to her room where she curled up on her bed and stared at the bricked wall. 

_ The Hound _ . A name she had swore she would never speak again, never think again, for the guilt that came with it was too much to bare. And yet, here she was, thinking about it, whispering it—

Chasing it in the streets.

* * *

It was three fucking weeks before the Hound received a letter informing him that his ‘order’ was ready. About fucking time. He was nearly out of money and had to stop frequenting the whore houses, which meant that he spent a majority of his days shut up in his rented room getting drunk off wine. Aye, wine was nice, but there was only so much boredom that drink could kill before a man lost his wits. The Hound felt he might just be a that limit when the innkeeper came knocking on his door with a letter in hand.

The letter ordered him to meet the sender at a tavern near the docks at midday and to bring the promised payment. The Hound nearly bludgeoned his head against the wall at the mention of the much avoided docks. He was just getting over the smell.

The Hound only needed to scan the tavern once before his eyes fell on his lunch companion. The man was round, rounder than any man that the Hound had ever seen in Westeros, and he had a head full of styled brown curls that fell into an elegant trail down his back. He was dressed in an unnecessarily complicated yellow robe and wore a gaudy amount of golden jewelry that dangled ridiculously off his large body. The Hound hadn’t chosen the man for looks or his sense of style, however. 

“Ah, ser Clegane, welcome!” The man greeted jovially. 

“I’m no knight.”

The man nodded vigorously, his curls bouncing as if the fucking things were alive. “Of course, of course. Please sit. Have a drink and some food. I find the fried oysters here to be absolutely marvelous.”

The Hound sat, but waved the serving woman away when she began to approach. He hadn’t come to indulge in food or meaningless pleasantries. Reaching into his armor, the Hound pulled out a heavy sack and dropped it unceremoniously before the man—the impact of it knocked over a chalice of wine.

“What have you found, Sek.”

Sek, which the Hound was almost certain was not the man’s real name (a man in his sort of business would be a fucking idiot to use his true name), smiled and it reminded the Hound far too much of Varys from King’s Landing, the cockless snake. “Of course. Your little wolf was quite difficult to pin down. She’s been bouncing about Braavos for several months now and has involved herself with a very, shall we say, nefarious group.”

The Hound did not allow his face to betray the emotion that welled up inside, but his breath stopped short. It had been a foolish and nonsensical hope, a hunch at best, but he remembered of the ‘friend’ that the girl had talked of endlessly that lived in Braavos. The friend that the girl said she would one day like to visit.

What were the odds? Fucking terrible, the Hound knew that. The odds that the girl hadn’t been snatched up by a group of soldiers or bandits and raped bloody her first day on her own were slim at best and if that hadn’t done her in then surely the elements would have killed just as swiftly as a cock and sword. But the little wolf, the girl he had protected as much as he had terrorized for months, she wasn’t one to go down so easily, so mundanely. She’d had her Needle, pathetic little cunty sword that it was it could still stab through flesh just as easily as any other, and she’d had his silver that she’d taken off him—there was a chance that she’d made it out alive. That possibility nagged at him for weeks after he’d woken in the care of Brother Ray. The Hound had tried to forget her, forget the little menace that hadn’t earned him a red cent even after all the trouble he’d gone through, all the time he wasted. But every time he closed his eyes, there she was, her wild and untamed face, staring back at him. He had to know, he just had to, whether she was alive or dead, and his best chance at doing that was by heading to Braavos. 

“She’s alive then?” The Hound asked.

“Oh, yes.” Sek laughed, “Alive and well from what my sources have said.”

An internal sigh of relief shook the Hound and he almost felt like fainting, although that very well could have been from the ale he’d been guzzling earlier that morning. “What sort of trouble has she gotten tangled in?”

Sek smirked and noisily slurped an oyster from its shell. “I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s  _ trouble _ , but, at the very least, perhaps concerning?”

“Speak plainly. I’m cutting your fucking pay in half for every minute you waste with your sly words.”

“What I mean to say is that your little wolf has involved herself with the Faceless Men of the House of Black and White.” 

The Hound allowed a beat of silence before snarling, “Pig shit!”

“It is not, I assure you. I have never sold false information before.”

The Hound had heard of the Faceless Men in only the vaguest and most asinine of tales. They were rumors, there were always rumors of these sort of expensively lush and underground factions that catered to others’ bloodlust. The Faceless Men were one of countless others he’d heard of in children’s tales and soldiers’ gossip; pig shit, in other words.

“Where is she now? Where is she staying?”

“As I said, the House of Black and White.”

The Hound was losing his patience and he had little to gamble with to start. “And where in the bloody fuck is that?”

Sek raised his eyebrows at the Hound and the Hound nearly reached across the table to slam the cocky cunt’s head into the wall. Sek seemed to get the message and said, “Why, it’s a temple that was built in honor of the Many-Faced God. It’s on an island just about a mile or so from the west docks.”

That was all the Hound needed to hear. He snatched Sek’s refilled cup of wine and chugged it himself before he rose to leave, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and releasing a rather impressive belch. But Sek grabbed his wrist before he could go anywhere—a rather bold, and fucking stupid move on the man’s part. But the Hound paused nonetheless and waited.

“You should know, ser, that you needn’t go to the House of Black and White.”

“What the fuck’s that mean?” He didn’t bother correcting the ‘ser’ thing.

“I mean that you’ve grown an extra shadow since you’ve arrived here in Braavos. Next time you find yourself wandering the streets, look to the rooftops or canals, dark corners and alleys. You will find your little wolf in no time.” And then Sek released the Hound’s wrist, grabbed his sack of silver, and made a swift exit. “Pleasure doing business with you, ser Clegane. Have a blessed day.” 

The Hound wasted not a second more, he headed for the streets.

* * *

Arya had finished her chores by midday, she had skipped breakfast and lunch to be sure of it. Blisters had formed on her fingers from the harshness at which she scrubbed the floors and her back ached terribly from being bent over for so long—but she dared not linger too long lest Jaqen or the Waif find her and assign more tasks. She had gotten skilled at avoiding them, finishing her daily duties as quick as humanly possible and then slipping out the door to the city. She did not return until night had fallen and the Hound was asleep; this was best, since she knew that, at least for the time being, the Hound wasn’t going anywhere. But mornings were always cause for flustered panic to hurry and get out of the House of Black and White as soon as possible. The Hound woke early, never dawdled when he had places to be, he could leave at any time and Arya would lose him easily. She couldn’t allow that. She didn’t truly understand why, but she just couldn’t.

Entering at the docks, Arya made her way to the inn where the Hound had been staying. She panicked when she found his room empty, but quickly calmed after noticing his traveling pack and silver were still hidden under his bed—still untrusting, it seemed. Good. But where had he gone? He’d stopped ordering whores about a week ago and she strongly suspected it had to do with his dwindling funds. After counting the amount of silver coins under his bed, her suspicions were proven correct. Since then, he’d been shut up in his room, drinking and singing—yes, singing. He was an awful singer, the Hound. His voice reminded Arya, ironically enough, of a dying mutt. But she stayed and listened anyway until he inevitably passed out from the wine.    

Returning to the streets, Arya checked all the obvious places that the Hound may have drunkenly staggered to; she checked his favorite whore houses and taverns, checked the street which exclusively sold imported wines and ales, and she scanned the docks. Nothing. He was nowhere. 

Wandering the streets was a stupid bet. What were the odds that she would just happen upon him? But as Arya was quickly discovering, she would be a terrible gambler.

Sliding through throngs of people, Arya was headed back to the inn. He’d have to return there at some point to collect his money and things so that was her best chance to see him. 

But then, she saw him. 

It took a minute for Arya to realize it was him. The sun was bright and the streets were filled to burst with hundreds of people shuffling through with their wares and goods. She could barely breathe, let alone see above anyone’s head. But the Hound, much like his brother (though she would never  _ ever _ tell him that) was hulking and tall—taller than most Braavosi. 

His scars caught the sun and shined, they almost looked like smooth glass from a distance. Many people thought the scars made the Hound ugly, unapproachable, and fierce. But to Arya, the scars were simply a mark of bravery, an intense pain that someone suffered and lived through. She never found his scars distasteful. She never turned her face from them, not like her sister had or the countless people they’d met on the road had. Those scars did not scare Arya.

But in that moment, in the middle of the street, Arya was terrified. Ducking, she bolted beneath people’s legs and ran for an alley. It was dark and damp and smelled of shit and piss, no one would willingly enter it. She was safe, so long as he hadn’t seen her.

What would he do if he had? Would he try to kill her for leaving him? Would he bash her skull in or stab her through the heart? Would he just turn away?

Arya waited several seconds before catching her breath and having enough courage to peek around the corner. He hadn’t seen her, he was heading in the opposite direction now at a leisurely pace, one Arya could easily keep up with. She had to move then or she would lose him in the crowd. So, like the cats which Syrio had forced her to study so meticulously, Arya slinked out from the alley and effortlessly melted in with a group of merchants. 

She followed him for three streets until she realized that staying on the road was too risky. The Hound had excellent senses, he would feel that he was being followed if she kept it up so she dropped down to the canals. The canals were less obvious than the rooftops—it wasn’t unusual to see a little orphan playing in the canal water, but one hopping from roof to roof? Yes, that was markedly more unusual and very noticable.

Arya followed the Hound for another four streets, but still could not distinguish exactly where he was going. He didn’t seem to have anywhere in mind, his posture was relaxed and his eyes weren’t set and determined as they usually were when he had somewhere to be. But she followed still, quietly splashing several paces behind him, pausing only when the Hound crossed a bridge and stopped.

What was he doing?

The Hound brushed a strand of hair from his face and leaned over the edge of the bridge, resting his elbows on the wall, and peered out. Out where? Arya couldn’t tell. He was just looking. Looking at something or nothing, she had no idea. But she was directly in his line of sight. She moved to hide behind a barrel but— _ stupid, stupid, stupid! _ \--she tripped and fell right into said barrell, knocking it over and spilling its red contents (wine?) all over herself and canal bank.

Fuck.

Whipping around, their eyes met. They stared at one another for several seconds—Arya in shock, the Hound in she didn’t know what. She was an idiot, Arya decided, an absolute idiot.

Another second passed and then the Hound leapt over the wall and barreled towards her.

Arya didn’t know where it came from or why it suddenly clawed its way up her throat then, but she screamed. 

And then she ran. 

* * *

The bitch  _ had _ been tailing him! The Hound was furious. How had he not noticed her irritating little presence at all in the three weeks he’d been in Braavos? How? For fucks sake, how long? Sek had said since he arrived, but the Hound refused to believe that she’d been on him for that long and if it was true, then he was going to blame it on the wine and whores. There’s no way she would have been capable of that back in Westeros. No fucking way.

The Hound realized that the moment he leaped over the wall he must have resembled some great beast from a child’s nightmare, what with him charging down the canal bank in all his bulky armor. He heard her shriek, it was piercing in its shrillness. Good. She should be fucking scared. He was going to kill her, slowly, like he should have done the moment he found out there was no money in it for him to keep her around. 

_ You wouldn’t _ . Again, not for the first time, the little bird’s voice rang in his head.

Shut the fuck up. She deserved it. The little wolf bitch had left him to not just die, but to suffer. She knew that his wounds were great, great enough to kill him but not right away, and even after everything he’d done for her, the ungrateful bitch had left him there. So let her be scared, let her scream and plead, it was no less than she deserved. 

But she had stopped screaming and instead began running. She slipped and slid in the spilled wine, but quickly regained her balanced and bolted. She was fast, faster than before, and the Hound knew he would have lost her if she hadn’t tripped again and taken a header right into the canal. Had it been before, back in Westeros, he would have laughed his ass off. But there was no laughing then. He plunged his hand in and grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her out.

She coughed and spat out a mouthful of filthy water. The girl took several deep breaths, her body shivering for a moment in the cold air, but a few breaths were all she allowed before the girl started kicking and bucking.

The Hound had experienced this sort of fight from her before and she was still balls at it. He had tried to teach her how to remain calm, to not panic and lash out if she was captured. A man could easily over power her, knock her unconscious, or simply throw her over their shoulder as he had done many times, but she had speed and agility on her side. Clearly she remembered none of his teachings, because the little wolf resembled a wild bull then, uncoordinated kicks and flailing arms. 

He slapped her with the back of his hand and she went flying. He swore he heard a yelp, but he couldn’t be sure as she smacked against the hard ground of the canal and went silent. She didn’t move. Must have hit her head.

That would have been the perfect moment to take a sword to her skinny little throat and slit it open, spilling all her precious Stark blood on the banks of a shit infested Braavos canal. Ol’ noble Ned Stark would be horrified, the wolf’s pretty highborn mother would blanche and shriek from beyond the grave at the fate of her beloved child.

But he did no such thing. 

Taking in several aching lungfuls of air, the Hound reached down and pressed two fingers gingerly to her neck where he felt a strong and throbbing pulse. He sighed, though he refused to acknowledge the great deal of relief that little pumping vessel brought him. It would be no fun to slaughter the girl while she wasn’t awake to endure the terror that facing an enemy from your nightmares could bring. 

That’s what the Hound told himself as he hefted her over his shoulder and stalked off back to his room at the inn.


	2. A Girl, A Man, and A Hound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Thanks to everyone who left kudos, comments, and bookmarks! Now, let's jump in!

Awaking after unwillingly falling unconscious was markedly different than just waking from sleep. It was, undeniably, very unpleasant and, to Arya, felt as though she were swimming through syrup. It was a slow process coming back to herself after such an ordeal, one that she despised and did her best to avoid. It made her feel confused, out of control, and terribly vulnerable. If someone chose to gut her right then, they easily could. Waking from sleep happened all at once while waking from that dark and soundless place where she went after a particularly brutal blow to the head took forever. 

Like now, for instance. Arya knew she was just beginning the agonizingly slow ordeal of coming out of a forced sleep. She could feel the softness of a bed beneath her (strange...) and the itchy warmth of a blanket encasing her from all sides (stranger yet...). Of all the times she’d woken up from passing out, it had never been in the comfort of a bed. She wasn’t one to complain, though. It was much preferable to the stone slabs that the Faceless Men called beds. Apparently being a servant of the Many Faced God left little room to consider comfort. Either that or Arya was just spoiled—that’s what Jaqen would always say. 

Speaking of the man, he must have clobbered her mighty good because her head was throbbing like hell. Arya shifted in her odd little cocoon of wool and moaned at the ache she felt in her legs. Seven Hells, she felt like she’d been running for days and gone tumbling down the side of a mountain. She never felt this wretched after training with Jaqen. He was usually very careful to avoid leaving Arya in too terrible of a state. A bed bound servant was no servant at all.

Arya heard someone grunt as if they’d just woken up and a rustle of armor. Jaqen never sounded so caught off guard, it was impossible for him, and he never wore armor.

Just like that, Arya was awake. Her eyes flew open and she shot up in instant panic. Her limbs were tangled hopelessly in the blanket and she kicked wildly on instinct. Jaqen would be disappointed, a servant of the Many-Faced-God did not fall prey to fear, to senseless panic, and kick about like a boar. He would have wacked her harshly with that cursed rod of his for her poor escape attempt. 

Suddenly, dry and rough fingers circled her throat, cutting off the air Arya had been about to use for a shriek, and slammed her back down onto the bed. It was odd, the juxtaposition of the softness beneath her back and the violent hand gripping her throat, the angry scars and snarling teeth looming above her. 

“Bitch.” Was all the Hound managed to spit through his clenched teeth as he pressed her down further into the feathered mattress. 

Arya gasped and choked for air, clawing at the Hound’s wrist. One of Arya’s worst fears was suffocating; the slow weaning of air as her lungs hopelessly begged for one little sip of freshness, one tiny breath. Arya had heard from some that suffocation was one of the most peaceful ways to go. It was the way to do away with someone when you held no ill will against them, but they were in your way nonetheless. Suffocation and poison, weapons of women and the weak. Still, both killed just as swiftly as violence and a sword. Both were still scary. 

Just as those familiar black dots began blotting out the picture of the Hound’s face, though, the hand around her neck disappeared and Arya could breathe again. She gasped and sucked in as much clean air as her lungs could hold and drool dribbled from her mouth as she struggled to regain control again. If her head was pounding before…

The Hound was unusually quiet as Arya collapsed onto the bed and evened out her breathing. She stared at the wall and focused on not passing out again. She thought of Jaqen and the little kindnesses he would show her, she thought of Needle who was nestled away between some rocks on the beach, she thought of Nymeria and how she just barely escaped a grisly execution, then she thought of Jon and his sweet smile and his gentle hands that would ruffle her hair, she thought of everyone and everything that had ever brought her an ounce of happiness before she had gathered enough courage to raise herself from the bed and meet the Hound’s gaze.

He wasn’t looking at her, the Hound’s eyes were fixed firmly on a pitcher of wine on the table next to him. He looked like shit and he was tense as hell. He could have killed her just then. It would have been simple. Arya’s skinny neck in his meaty hand, it would have been like snapping a twig. But he’d spared her. 

“I thought you said Braavos was for greasy cunts and sons of greasy cunts.” Arya found herself saying or, rather, croaking. 

The Hound grunted, “It is. Smells just as shit as I’d imagined it would. Fish everywhere.”

“It’s one of their main exports.”

“So I’ve heard. Endlessly.”

Silence. This certainly wasn’t how Arya had imagined their reunion, not that she’d had much time to since prior to three weeks ago she had assumed the Hound was solidly dead as rock. 

Arya didn’t know what came over her, but she couldn’t help but say, “I thought you were dead.”

“I thought the same about you. Suppose we’re both shit at guessing games.”

“Guess so.”

“You left me there.”

_ That _ , Arya decided, hurt more than his fists ever had. “I did.”

“Why?”

How was she supposed to answer that? Start with the truth and work from there. “I was angry.”

The Hound released something that sounded like a chuckle, but it was so muffled that Arya couldn’t be sure. “Angry about what? I was dying. You should have been overjoyed.”

“Well, I wasn’t! I was pissed as hell. I was so angry with you!” Arya didn’t even realize it was true until she’d said it. And then she couldn’t stop. “How could you lose to that woman?! How? You’re the Hound, best warrior in Westeros, and you let that no name knight hack you to pieces! Of course I was furious! You were all I had left after everything and then you went and got yourself killed.” 

The Hound said nothing, but Arya noticed the subtle way his eyes crinkled at her exclamation, the way his fists clenched ever so slightly. 

“Or, at least I  _ thought _ you’d been killed.” Arya watched carefully as the Hound relaxed and poured himself some wine. 

“I thought so too. Some do gooder cunt found me and saved me. If it hadn’t been for him, I assure you little wolf girl, I would have met the gods that day.”

Arya turned away half in disgust and half in shame. She wasn’t quite sure if the disgust part was aimed at herself or the Hound. “That’s lovely. But that doesn’t explain why you’re in Braavos.”

“Needed a change of scenery. Besides, there wasn’t anything left for me in Westeros except bounties and a great fucking pike with my name on it.” The Hound took two huge gulps of his wine and slammed the mug against the table. 

“But why Braavos? You could have gone anywhere.”

“You know why.”

Arya had an inkling, but she refused to believe it. The Hound had protected her, had comforted her (as well as the Hound was capable of comforting), and he’d even taught her many lessons on survival and defense, but it had all been in the name of gold. He couldn’t afford to watch her back every waking moment of the day and he needed her alive if he hoped to collect any reward so he’d taught her how to escape a hogtie, how to kick out a knee cap, how to use her natural speed and size to her advantage in a fight. He’d comforted her because a broken girl was about as useful as a dead one and he needed her to pick up a sword and defend herself if the time came. He protected her because all the lessons in the world couldn’t make up for being outnumbered six to one and for being a third of the size of most men. It hadn’t been because he gave a damn about Arya herself. It hadn’t.

“You’re the worst liar in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“We ain’t in the Seven Kingdoms anymore, girl, and I ain’t lying.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Arya rose to her feet, a bit too quickly judging by the sudden bout of lightheadedness that stuck. “I have to go.”

That got a real Hound-like reaction for the first time in a while. The Hound bolted at her and grabbed Arya’s arm, his grip tight and just shy of painful. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Arya met his eyes, challenging. “I’m not your prisoner anymore, dog. And if you don’t let me go, I promise that someone even scarier will come to get me.” Arya didn’t know if that was true. She was always free to come and go as she pleased at the House of Black and White so long as she completed her chores and training. She didn’t know what would happen, if anything, if she just didn’t come back one night.

The Hound gave an ugly sneer at that, “You mean those faceless bastards you’ve been running around with? Let them come.”

Arya couldn’t help herself, she burst into laughter. “Jaqen will snap your bones with his pinky.”

“A greasy Braavosi using his pinky for anything other than picking his nose would be a sight.” The Hound then yanked her back onto the bed, so violently that Arya actually lost her footing and went down without a fight.

“You can’t keep me here! You haven’t got any more money!” Arya snarled. “What do you want with me anyway? Are you going to torture me? Rape me? Just get it over with then! Your ugly face is practically blinding me!” That was a lie, a stupid one too because Arya knew how sensitive he was about the scars, though he liked to act as if he couldn’t care less.

The backhand to her cheek was instant, expected, and when Arya tasted blood in her mouth it was almost like spiced wine splashing on her tongue. It made her skin prickle with anticipation and her nerves tingle as she readied herself for a fight. If she was quick enough, got him mad enough, she could slip through the window during his rage.

Spitting a mouthful of blood at his face, Arya sneered just like he had done, “No wonder my sister turned her face from yours. Those disgusting scars would make anyone shiver with horror. Repulsive, horrid—” Another blow, this one markedly more brutal and Arya swore she felt one of her teeth loosen at the impact. 

This was a dangerous game she was playing, one that she could lose at any moment if she didn’t play her cards right. But Arya had become something of an expert at dangling the Hound on the edge of blind rage and just extreme anger. One state simply lead to a few bruises, the other could potentially lead to a lot more.

“You know why I refused to kill you? Because I couldn’t stand to look at your ugly face for one second more! To smell your stinking breath as I slit your throat would have been too mu—”

That time it was all fist, right in her gut. The air left Arya’s lungs and she crumpled to her knees pathetically. Now was her chance. Sucking in one last deep breath, Arya bolted for the window. She didn’t even bother with the latch, she crossed her arms in front of her face and dove through the pane glass. The landing was hard and the pain shot through her legs and hips like lightning. But she didn’t have time to wallow.

Arya ran and did not turn back. 

* * *

The Hound watched the girl’s figure disappear down the dark road into the night. He didn’t need to chase after her and drag her back. He knew exactly where she’d be and he was tired. Stepping back from the window, the Hound sighed at the glass shards that littered the floor. The innkeeper might just lose her mind at the sight and he had no money left to pay, the girl had been right about that part. Throwing himself onto the bed, the Hound chugged the remainder of his wine and chucked the empty pitcher across the room, listening as it shattered satisfyingly against the wall.

Much as he dared not admit it, the girl’s venomous words had stung, even though he was aware that she had been baiting him. He wasn’t an idiot and the girl was balls at veiling her intentions, especially when she was trying to pull one over on him. He’d seen her eyes focus in on the window, the way she licked her lips and her shoulders squared, the way she always did when an idea had struck and she was determined to see it through. Still, he’d hit just as hard as he would have if her words had been true. Though the Hound was aware the little wolf was just trying to rile him up, anger him enough to lose focus for a second, there had been a grim satisfaction in striking her, making her bleed, transferring some of that hurt and betrayal into physical blows. 

Her words still rang irritatingly in his head and he rolled over, praying to the gods that the wine ferried him into an easy sleep soon. 

* * *

“A girl is hurt.”

Arya grunted from her collapsed position on her stone slab in her room. She had no idea how she managed to run all the way back to the docks and row herself to the House of Black and White. Her legs were screaming with pain now as she struggled to splint her ankle. It was turning a sickly black and had gone numb about halfway through her dash through the city. Arya just barely limped her way up the steps of the temple before Jaqen opened the doors and found her seconds from passing out from the pain. 

“A man is too sharp for his own damn good.” She answered snidely. 

Jaqen chuckled as he kneeled down beside her bed and gently slapped her hands away. “A man will help. A girl is making quite a mess.” 

It always amazed Arya how kind Jaqen’s hands were, how soft they felt against her skin. He was a killer, a ruthless assassin that showed no mercy or empathy towards anyone, especially not a chosen one of the Faceless Men. But to Arya, to his trainees like the Waif, Jaqen was almost fatherly. He expertly positioned the wooden slats on either side of the horribly swollen ankle and wrapped them tightly. Arya couldn’t help the whimper that escaped her, but she quickly tried to mask it with a cough. 

Jaqen smiled kindly and gave her leg a comforting squeeze. “It’s not broken. But a girl will need to rest it for several days.”

“Sorry.” Arya sighed, “I will still do my chores.”

“A girl will focus on healing. And a girl will stay away from the Hound.”

The fact that Jaqen was fully aware of where she’d been and who had hurt her should have been a shock, but Arya had stopped being surprised a while ago when it came to what Jaqen knew. “He will come looking for me.”

“A girl shall not be concerned with the Hound anymore. If a girl wishes to become a servant of the Many-Faced-God then a girl must erase her past and those in it. She must become no one.” Jaqen was not cruel when he spoke this harsh truth, his voice always sounded oddly melodic when he lectured in this way. Arya was almost certain that if he’d told her to drown herself in the Braavos harbor that she might just do it.

But the pain in her legs brought Arya back, lessened the influence of Jaqen’s calming tone. “I know that. But he will come. He knows I’m here.” She paused as she met Jaqen’s grey eyes, “You don’t know him like I do. He’s called the Hound for a reason.”

“Does a girl wish to name a man?”

Arya froze. Name him? As a sacrifice to the Many-Faced-God, the Hound would be done away with swiftly. She wouldn’t have to worry about him any longer. Arya could return to her training with Jaqen and become a skilled assassin, a feared warrior, just like she’d always dreamed. One more name would be crossed from her list. 

“I don’t have any money.” Arya whispered. 

“A man will grant the gift of death to the Hound if a girl will pay the price.”

“I have no money.” She repeated, “I threw away everything I had. I have nothing to give.”

“A girl has herself.”

That was certainly cryptic, which wasn’t unusual in the House of Black and White. Anyone that wasn’t Jaqen seemed to adore speaking in riddles and nonsense, during the few moments others would deign Arya worthy of speaking to, of course. Usually, she was ignored and left to Jaqen to deal with. But now, even he seemed to adopt the utterly infuriating way that the priests and followers would drone on.

“I’m already in training to become a servant of the Many-Faced-God. What more of myself can I offer?”

“A girl has many parts—arms, legs, ears, and eyes.” Jaqen tweaked one of her ears playfully, which seemed oddly inappropriate given what he was suggesting.

Arya leaned away from the man’s grasp and rubbed self-consciously at her ear. “I’m not chopping off parts to kill the Hound.”   

“Good. A man jests, anyway.”

“Jaqen!” If Arya didn’t know that he could snuff her out with a blink of his laughing eyes, she would have punched him.

“If a girl names the Hound, a man will offer him to the Many-Faced-God. A girl’s payment shall be received through a lifetime of service. She may never leave the House of Black and White, she may never disown the Many-Faced-God, or she too will be offered up as a gift.” 

Arya considered Jaqen’s words carefully. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already planned on seeing through her training. She enjoyed Jaqen’s company, sometimes he felt like the only person in the whole wide world that was on her side, that actually gave a damn about her. She’d felt that way before about the Hound, but she ignored that similarity. Arya also quite liked the freedom that came with living in Braavos. Crime seemed far less common in the free city. Men weren’t constantly grabbing at her as she walked through the streets and Arya rarely worried about pickpockets—and not just because she didn’t have anything worth stealing. Arya liked being close to the sea, tasting the salt on her tongue and watching the ships come and go in the harbor, carrying their exotic wares and important people. 

All that considered, Arya wouldn’t be against staying in Braavos forever. But there was her list. And Jon. And Bran and Rickon and Sansa. And Winterfell, ruined as it was rumored to be, it was still Arya’s home, her birthplace. And damn the Faceless Men and their ridiculous notion of becoming no one. Arya Stark would never be no one. But that didn’t mean that she couldn’t learn invaluable lessons from Jaqen. Perhaps it was dirty and underhanded, Arya almost felt like she was using the man, but it was the only way. 

“No, I don’t think a girl shall name the Hound today.” Arya spoke airly, as if in a dream. 

“As a girl wishes.” Jaqen smiled knowingly. He had been well aware of what her answer would be. He probably even knew about Arya’s intention, or lack thereof, in becoming a Faceless Man. Why he hadn’t thrown her out, if that was true, was a mystery. “But a girl will not to approach the Hound again.”

Arya shrugged her skinny shoulders, gazing down at her wrapped ankle. “I wouldn’t. Not like this.”

“Not ever.” This time Jaqen’s voice was like stone and Arya stiffened at the abrupt shift, how much it did not sound like the Jaqen she adored. “A girl will not speak to the Hound again. Or she will no longer be welcome at the House of Black and White.” A gentle hand cupped the back of her neck, which still throbbed horribly from the Hound’s grip. Arya met Jaqen’s eyes and in their depths she saw nothing. She saw no one. “Does a girl understand?”

“A girl understands.”

“Very well.” Jaqen rose from the floor, giving her hair a kindly ruffle before retreating from her room without another word.

Arya laid down and stared solemnly at the damp ceiling.

* * *

The Hound paced the docks of Braavos, aggressively avoiding any overly determined eyes of fish merchants and the grabby hands of dirty children. The Hound realized he was certainly a sight amongst the Braavosi. They had their own mercenaries and warriors, but as the little wolf had proven with her silly water dancing shit, they were nothing at all like the knights and warriors of Westeros. So far as the Hound could tell, no one in fucking Braavos knew what armor was, or if they did then they were all fucking morons because that means they purposefully chose not to use it. Their thin leathers and girlish silks would do nothing to protect them from even a half-sharpened sword. The Hounds clunking steel armor and glimmering swords drew the eyes of everyone around him, but he did well to keep his eyes firmly focused in front of him and did not stop as he walked down one particularly rickety looking dock which housed a multitude of rowboats.

A man, who was missing nearly every other tooth in his stinking mouth, was slouched over on a stool, sucking on a collection of oysters. 

“I need a boat.” The Hound said as he approached.

The man sighed, “Twelve coppers an hour. Twenty if there’s any damages upon return. I’ll also need fifty coppers upfront, ser.”

“Fifty?” The Hound spit, he gazed closer at the man then, his mouth covered in sores and an odd greying to his skin made him almost resemble more fish than man. Gods, he just couldn’t escape those blasted creatures.

The man ignored the Hound’s aggression and went about slurping another oyster, tossing its empty shell into a bucket. “I can’t just give my boats to any old fool that asks, ser. If I did that, I wouldn’t have any boats left. I require some sort of collateral so that I know you will return with my property.” The man gave the Hound a wink and he had to seriously argue with himself that slitting the irritating cunt’s throat here and now would not be in his best interest. “Once you return with my boat, I will return what you are due.”

Of course it made perfect sense business wise, but the Hound could feel the light weight of his coin purse strapped to his hip and knew he did not have fifty coppers. “Got any work you need doing in exchange for an hour with one of your precious boats?” He growled.

The man laughed, “A man such as myself always has work that needs doing.” The Hound nearly cringed when the man’s eyes began to sparkle. “If you scrape the bottoms of my boats, I’ll give you one afternoon, free of charge.”

The Hound truly considered in that moment how likely it would be that anyone would miss the cunt of a boat keeper if he hacked the head clean off his shoulders then and there. But, the girl wasn’t going anywhere and if he hoped to stay undisturbed, he could not just go about killing the citizens. All it took was one pair of eyes and one set of loud lips for word to spread of his presence here. The last thing he needed was a fleet of royal ships coming to claim his bounty. 

“Aye, I’ll scrape your fucking boats.” The Hound grumbled finally.

It took until midday when the dock was at its busiest for the Hound to finish all the boats and he smelled like a whore’s cunt by that point—his temper was close to snapping.

“Job well done, ser!” The boat keeper praised. “Go on your way then. I’ll trust you’ll have my boat back by sunset?”

“I’ll have the fucking thing back when I’m done with my business!” The Hound had already loaded up and was pushing away from the docks. The man shouted something more, but the Hound ignored him and focused instead on the looming beast of a temple before him. It was truly magnificent in its size, the Hound had certainly never seen anything of its magnitude in Westeros for any of the old or new gods. 

“These cunts probably shit gold.” He murmured as his boat drew closer. “What’s the girl gone and gotten involved in a place like this for?”

The Hound docked and climbed the steps to the front door where he was greeted unexpectedly by a ragged looking man in a white robe and stringy red hair, a queer white streak running through it, like the phantom of a lightning strike. Of course the fucks wore robes. All men who found themselves important wore robes. The Hound often found these men were the easiest and most satisfying to kill. 

“You must be the Hound.” The man spoke first. “A man is honored to meet a warrior of your caliber.”

“Pig shite. If you knew anything about me, then you’d know that it ain’t no honor to meet me, those who do usually leave without their heads. And just who the hell are you?”

“I am no one.”

The Hound could practically feel the last tendril of patience he had snap within him. “Aye, that’s right, you ain’t no one to me, but you have someone here that is. A little bitch that never shuts her mouth and is far more pain than she’s worth, who would stick a sword in your back just as soon as she would use it in your defense.”

“The Hound refers to a girl—Arya Stark.”

“You’re not as much of a dumb cunt as I thought. I will take her off your hands, for free even.”

The man’s demeanor shifted instantly and the air surrounding the two became noticeably charged with some sort of unseen aggression, though the man’s expression had not changed. “A man cannot allow that. A girl is now a servant of the Many Faced God and she will not be leaving with you.”

“What are you doing with her? If she’s got a debt, consider it paid.” The Hound growled.

The man simply gave a knowing smile and said, “With what money did you intend to pay a girl’s debt?”

The Hound spat a wad of gunk that had been building in his throat and watched, satisfied, as it landed on the cunt’s bare foot. “No coin necessary. If there’s no collector then there’s no debt.”

The man laughed, hearty, and amused. “You are quite an unpleasant fellow.” 

“And I suppose you and your merry band of greasy killer pricks are saints of the gentle mother? Give me the girl and I’ll be on my way.”

“A girl has no debts with the Many Faced God nor with a man.”

“What do you want with the bitch then? 

For one moment, an instant that flashed so quick the Hound nearly missed it, the begruttled man’s face twisted in disgust. “Certainly not for any of the vile reasons you’re imagining, Hound.” 

“You just enjoy turning little girls into killers then?”

“A little girl is not so different from a little boy. And a girl sought out the Many Faced God all on her own. A man merely provided the map.” Then the fucking prick gave a dangerous smirk, “Were you not the one who taught a girl to aim for the heart? You presume to lecture me on corrupting little girls, hm?” 

“Not a lecture.” The Hound reached for the sword attached to his hip, it’d been far too long since he had a good fight. “Just an observation.”

“A girl has chosen this path for herself. She will not abandon it.”

“You sound very sure of yourself.” The Hound was all too familiar with arrogant pricks like him—Joffrey had always been so very sure of himself, so very sure that he was invincible, right up until he wasn’t and choked on some poisoned wine. 

“A girl has a list.” The man said and the Hound froze. “A girl values that list most of all. So no, she will not abandon the Many-Faced-God for he is the only one that can give her what she wants.”

“And what’s that?”

“Names.”

The Hound closed his mouth and observed the raggedy man for a moment. “You’re manipulating that girl.” He realized.

The man frowned then, actually appearing somewhat bothered by the accusation. “It is no manipulation. A girl desires names, lusts after their blood. The Many-Faced-God can give them to a girl and provide her with his all encompassing protection.”

The Hound suddenly had a sense of unwelcome deja vu as his mind wandered back to Westeros and the face of a blonde female warrior appeared. 

_ “That’s what you’re doing? Watching over her?” _

_ “Aye, that’s what I’m doing..” _

The Hound almost choked on his own laughter. “Are you trying to spew some self righteous horse shite about protecting that girl?”

The man smiled, his serenely empty mask back in place. “A girl has told a man many things about the Hound. Not all pleasant things. And not all unpleasant.” The man’s eyes gazed strangely and the Hound, he could not describe them exactly, only that they made him feel naked and exposed, vulnerable as if the man really possessed some devine sight from his shitty god. “The Hound once extended his protection to a girl.”

“The bitch was worth my weight in gold. She ain’t worth nothing if she’s dead.”

“Ah,” The man chuckled, “You, Sandor Clegane, would be a terrible opponent in the game of faces.”

The Hound bristled instantly at the use of his name and pulled out his sword, pointing it directly at the man’s face. He was done with word play—he excelled with a sword. “Enough of this shite. I want that girl. She owes me.”

“Unfortunately, a girl is not receiving visitors today. Please try again another time.” And almost like a wraith, a phantom in the night, the man slipped through the front doors of the temple and left the Hound, looking a fool, pointing his sword at air. 

The Hound tried the doors, but they were locked up tight and there were no windows to be seen—fucking prick. Left with little other choice, the Hound took his borrowed boat and returned to the mainland where the fucking boat keeper was waiting expectantly.

“Hope you got all your business handled, ser.”

The Hound said nothing and went to step around the obscenely irritating man but the cunt grabbed his arm. The Hound nearly took it off with one mighty yank.

“Ser, you look as though you could use a bit of coin in your purse, eh? Well, as I said before, a man such as myself always has work that needs doing—if you’re looking for it, of course.”

“I ain’t scraping any more of your fucking boats.”

The man gave a jovial laugh, “No, no. Your skills are far too valuable to be wasted on scraping off barnacles. No, I’ve seen you around the docks, and you carry that sword of yours like you really know how to use it. Your eyes tell me that you’ve seen quite a lot of fight in your day and I could use a man with such experience.”

The Hound nearly laughed, “And what would a boat keeper such as yourself need a man with such experience for?”

“For my daughter, Myridia.”

The Hound’s face twisted in disgust and mild discomfort. “I ain’t no bed warmer. And I ain’t looking for a wife.” What kind of father would look at his misshapen face, with all its craters and valleys and varying red pigments and think that would be a wonderful match. The man was either fucking blind or his daughter was equally as hideous. 

“No, ser! My daughter is barely thirteen! Certainly not old enough for a husband.” 

“Then what in the fuck do you need me for?”

The man swallowed, hard, and gazed nervously to the side, almost as if in shame. “Myridia, she’s a good, honest girl. But she’s stubborn and her will far outweighs my own.” He laughed fondly like any proper father would, but the Hound rolled his eyes. “She works at the Menagerie in town, it’s a—“

“Whore house. Yes, I’m aware.” 

The man rushed to defend himself—or his daughter. The Hound couldn’t tell. “It’s not what you think! She only serves food and drink to the customers. But some of those men, particularly the foreigners, they like to touch.”

“That’s what whore houses are for.”

“I understand. But no one else wanted a little girl to work for them except such an establishment and the Menagerie was the only place that would allow her to work with her gown still on.”  The man shook his head, “I forbade her from doing such work, but she would just sneak away while I was here. We owe coin to some very important people.”

“I couldn’t give less of a shite about your debts. You need someone to guard your daughter from the cunts that go whoring? Well, I’m one of those cunts. I’m the wrong man to be asking to protect your girl’s virtue.” 

“I’ll pay you fifty coppers a day.” The man offered, “And you can stay in our home. We have a spare room. It used to be my wife’s library but—“

“Spare me the tragedy of your wife’s death. I’ve heard enough misty eyed stories of dead wives and war torn families in my life and if I have to hear one more I may just fall on my own sword.” 

“Actually, ser, my wife is very much alive. She sells oysters, just down there.” The man pointed off somewhere down the dock, “I was going to say we had to sell my wife’s collection, to pay some of our debts.”

“Ah, well, you’re one lucky cunt.” 

“Indeed. Now, about my offer?”

The Hound seriously considered it. He was nearly out of coin and after tomorrow, he would not be able to afford staying the inn any longer. He supposed he could throw his sword around a bit, threaten to slice open the innkeeper’s belly and show them their guts, but his intention was to keep a low profile—the people of Braavos were ignorant of his true identity. To them, the Hound was nothing more than an ugly prick with a sword. But if word got round, if someone traveled back to Westeros and told of a great scarred bastard that was threatening the locals...it wouldn’t take long for coin-hungry shites to come looking for him. And while the Hound wasn’t particularly nervous about the prospect of bounty hunters, he was mildly concerned about Cersei sending Lannister swords his way. That bitch was spiteful, vengeful as a viper, she would spare no expense in retrieving him for betraying the crown, leaving her precious son to die at his own wedding. 

“Fine.” The Hound said, before his brain could catch up with his mouth. “But just so we understand one another, I am not a godly man. I don’t protect a girl’s virtue, I steal it. Unless paid to do otherwise.”

“I think we understand each other well enough, ser. Come by tomorrow and I will introduce you.” 


End file.
